It is so hard for our minds to get a grip on the world of Evil! In fact I do not always succeed in imagining it as a world, a universe. It is and will never be anything other than a sketch, the sketch of a hideous, aborted creation at the extreme limit of being. I think of those limp, translucent pockets of the sea. What does the monster care about one criminal more or less? He devours his crime immediately, incorporates it into his horrible substance, digests it without departing for a moment from his terrifying, eternal immobility. But the historian, the moralist, the philosopher even, want to see only the criminal, they remake evil in the image and likeness of man. They form no idea of evil itself, that huge aspiration to emptiness and nothingness. For if our species is to perish, it will perish from disgust and boredom. The human being will have been slowly eaten away at, the way a beam is eaten by those invisible mushrooms which, in a few weeks, turn a piece of oak into a spongy material that a finger can easily puncture. And the moralist will talk about passions, the man of State will increase the numbers of police and civil servants, the teacher will draw up programmes – they will waste considerable effort on kneading a dough that has lost all its yeast.
(Take, for example, those generalized wars that seem to bear witness to man’s prodigious activity, when on the contrary they betray his growing apathy … In the end all they do is lead vast resigned herds to the slaughter, at regular intervals.)
They say that after thousands of centuries, the earth is still in the prime of youth, as if it is only in the early stages of its planetary evolution. Evil, too, is only just beginning.
My God, I have overestimated my strength. You have cast me into despair as one casts a tiny, blind new-born animal into the water.
It seems as if this night will never end. Outside, the air is so calm, so pure, that every quarter of an hour I can distinctly hear the big bell of the church in Morienval, three kilometres away … No doubt a calm man would smile at my anguish, but can one control a premonition?
How could I have let her go? Why didn’t I call her back? …
The letter was there, on my table. I had inadvertently taken it from my pocket, along with a bundle of papers. The strange, incomprehensible thing is that I had forgotten all about it. In fact, it takes me a great effort of will and attention to find again inside me something of the irresistible impulse that made me utter those words I still seem to hear: ‘Give me your letter.’ Did I really utter them? I wonder. It is possible that, deceived by fear and remorse, Mademoiselle Chantal didn’t think she was in a state to hide her secret from me. She must have handed me the letter of her own accord, and my imagination did the rest …
I have just thrown that letter in the fire without reading it and watched it burn. The envelope burst open with the heat and from it a corner of the paper emerged and soon turned black. For a second, though, what was written there was legible, and I think I distinctly saw the words: ‘To God …’
My stomach pains have returned, as awful, as unbearable as ever. I must resist the desire to lie on the flagstones and roll on them, moaning like an animal. Only God could know what I’m enduring. But does He know? (N.B. This last sentence, written in the margin, has been crossed out.)
* * *
On the first pretext that I could think of – arranging the service that the countess has me celebrate every six months for her family’s dead – I went to the chateau this morning. I was so nervous that when I entered the grounds, I stopped for a long time to watch the old gardener, Clovis, bundling dead wood as usual. His calm demeanour did me good.
The butler took a few moments, and I suddenly remembered, with terror, that the countess had settled his bill last month. What to say? Through the half-open door, I could see the table set for breakfast; they had probably only just left it. I tried to count the cups, but the numbers became blurred in my head. From the door of the drawing room, the countess had been looking at me for a while with her myopic eyes. It seemed to me she shrugged her shoulders, but not in any nasty way. It might have meant: ‘Poor boy! Still the same, he’ll never change …’ or something like that.
We entered a small room that follows on from the hall. She pointed to a chair. I didn’t see it, and she ended by pushing it towards me herself. I felt ashamed of my own cowardice. ‘I’ve come to talk to you about your daughter,’ I said.
There was a moment’s silence. Surely, among all the creatures over whom the sweet providence of God watches day and night, I was one of the most abandoned, the most wretched. But it was as if all self-respect had died in me.
The countess stopped smiling. ‘Go ahead,’ she said. ‘Don’t be afraid to speak. I think I know a lot more than you do about the child.’
‘Madame,’ I went on, ‘only God knows the secrets of our souls. Even the most clear-sighted can be fooled.’
‘What about you?’ she said, pretending to take a passionate interest in poking the fire. ‘Do you include yourself among the clear-sighted?’
Perhaps she wanted to hurt me. But I was quite incapable at that moment of taking offence. What usually gains the upper hand in me is the sense of how powerless, how invincibly blind, all of us poor creatures are, and that sense was stronger than ever in me at this point, it was like a vice gripping my heart. ‘Madame,’ I said, ‘however high our wealth or birth has placed us, we are all someone’s servant. I am everyone’s servant. And even then, “servant” is too noble a word for an unfortunate little priest like me, I should say I am everyone’s thing, or less even than that, if it pleases God.’
‘Can one be less than a thing?’
‘There are disposable things, things we throw away because we can’t use them. If, for example, my superiors considered me incapable of holding the modest office they have entrusted to me, I would be a disposable thing.’
‘With such an opinion of yourself, I think you are somewhat unwise to claim—’
‘I make no claim,’ I replied. ‘That poker is merely an instrument in your hands. If God had given it just enough knowledge to place itself, of its own accord, within your reach whenever you need it, that would be more or less what I am for you, what I would like to be.’
She smiled, although her face certainly expressed something other than gaiety or irony. Moreover, I was quite surprised at how calm I was. Perhaps my calm made a contrast with the humility of my words, a calm that may have intrigued her, or else embarrassed her. She looked at me several times out of the corner of her eye and sighed. ‘What do you want to tell me about my daughter?’
‘I saw her in church yesterday.’
‘In church? You surprise me. Daughters who rebel against their parents don’t usually go to church.’
‘The church is for everyone, madame.’
She looked at me again, this time straight in the face. Her eyes still seemed to be smiling, while the whole lower part of her face conveyed surprise, mistrust and an inexpressible stubbornness. ‘You have been taken in by a scheming young girl.’
‘Don’t drive her to despair,’ I said. ‘God forbids it.’
I paused to gather my thoughts. The logs were hissing in the fireplace. Through the open window, through the lawn curtains, the vast grounds could be seen, closed off by a black wall of pines, beneath a taciturn sky. It was like looking at a pond of stagnant water. The words I had just uttered left me speechless. They were so far from what I had been thinking a quarter of an hour earlier! And I also sensed that they were irreparable, that I would have to see this through to the end. Nor did the woman I had before me much resemble the one I had imagined.
‘Father,’ she resumed, ‘I have no doubt your intentions are good, excellent even. Since you yourself make no bones about your inexperience, I shan’t insist. Besides, there are certain situations a man will never understand, however experienced he is. Only women can confront them. You priests only believe in appearances. And there are certain disorders—’
‘All disorders proceed from the same father: the father of untruth.’
�
��There are disorders and disorders.’
‘No doubt,’ I said, ‘but we know there is only one order, the order of charity.’
She burst out laughing, with a cruel, hateful laugh. ‘I certainly wasn’t expecting …’ she began. I think she saw surprise and pity in my eyes, for she immediately controlled herself. ‘What do you know? What has she told you? Young girls are always unhappy and misunderstood. And there are always innocent men who believe them.’
I looked her full in the face. Where did I find the boldness to speak this way? ‘You don’t love your daughter,’ I said.
‘How dare you say that?’
‘Madame, as God is my witness, I came here this morning with the intention of serving all of you. And I’m too stupid to have prepared anything in advance. It is you yourself who are dictating these words to me, and I regret that they have offended you.’
‘Perhaps you have the power to read what is in my heart?’
‘Yes, I think I do, madame,’ I replied. I feared she would lose patience and insult me. Her grey eyes, usually so gentle, seemed to darken. But she finally lowered her head and with the tip of the poker traced circles in the ashes.
‘Do you know,’ she said at last in a soft voice, ‘that your superiors would judge your conduct severely?’
‘My superiors can disown me if they like, they have a perfect right to do so.’
‘I know you, you’re a good young priest, without vanity, without ambition, you certainly don’t have a taste for intrigue, somebody must have lectured you on that. This way of talking … this self-confidence … Good Lord, I must be dreaming! Come now, let’s be frank. Do you take me for a bad mother, a cruel mother?’
‘I wouldn’t presume to judge you.’
‘So what, then?’
‘I wouldn’t presume to judge Mademoiselle Chantal either. But I have experienced suffering, I know what it is.’
‘At your age?’
‘Age has nothing to do with it. I also know that suffering has its own language, that we should not take it literally and condemn it for its words, that it blasphemes everything, society, family, country, God Himself.’
‘You approve of that perhaps?’
‘I don’t approve, I’m trying to understand. A priest is like a doctor, he shouldn’t be afraid of wounds, of pus. All wounds of the soul fester, madame.’
She turned abruptly pale and made as if to stand.
‘That’s why I haven’t remembered mademoiselle’s words. Besides, I wasn’t entitled to. A priest only pays attention to suffering, if it is genuine. What matter the words that express it? And even if they are so many lies—’
‘Yes, lies and truth on the same level, a fine morality!’
‘I’m not a teacher of morality,’ I said.
She was visibly losing patience, and I was expecting her to tell me I should go. She would surely have wanted to dismiss me, but each time she looked at my sad face (I could see it in the mirror, and the reflection of the grounds outside made it seem even more ridiculous, more ashen) she made an imperceptible movement with her chin and seemed to regain the strength and the will to convince me, to have the last word. ‘My daughter is quite simply jealous of the governess. I suppose she must have told you all kinds of horrible things?’
‘I think she is above all jealous of her father’s friendship.’
‘Jealous of her father? And where does that leave me?’
‘She needs to be reassured, to be calmed.’
‘You mean I should throw myself at her feet and ask forgiveness?’
‘At least you should not let her leave you, leave her house, with despair in her heart.’
‘She will leave, though.’
‘You can force her to do so, but God will be the judge.’
I stood up. She stood up at the same time, and I saw a kind of panic in her eyes. She seemed to dread the thought that I might go and at the same time to fight against the desire to tell me everything, to give up her poor secret. She could no longer hold it in. It emerged from her at last, as it had emerged from her daughter. ‘You do not know what I have suffered. You know nothing of life. At the age of five, my daughter was what she is today. I want everything, and I want it now: that’s her motto. Oh, you priests have a naive, absurd idea of family life. It’s enough to hear you’ (she laughed) ‘at funerals. A united family, a respected father, an incomparable mother, a consoling spectacle, the social unit, our dear France, and so on and so forth … The strange thing is not that you say these things, but that you imagine they move people, that you say them with pleasure. The family, monsieur …’
She broke off, so abruptly that she seemed literally to swallow her words. Was this the same gentle, reserved woman I had seen on my first visit to the chateau, huddled in her big wing chair, her face pensive beneath the black lace? … Her very voice was so changed that I could barely recognize it, it had become shrill, dragging on the final syllables of words. I think she realized it, and that she was suffering terribly from her inability to control herself. I did not know what to think of such weakness in a woman who was usually so self-possessed. My own boldness can be explained: I had probably lost my head, I had rushed forward, like a shy man who in order to be sure he fulfils his duty to the end closes off all retreat and ploughs on regardless. But she? It was so easy for her, I think, to disconcert me! A certain smile would probably have been enough.
My God, is it because of the chaos of my own thoughts, my own heart? Is the anguish I am suffering contagious? For some time now, I have had the impression that my mere presence lures sin from its lair, brings it up to the surface of the other person, to his or her eyes, mouth, voice … It is as if the enemy scorns to keep hiding himself from such a puny adversary, as if he comes out and challenges me to my face, laughs at me.
We stood there, side by side. I remember the rain lashing the window panes. I also remember old Clovis, his task over, wiping his hands on his blue apron. The noise of glasses clinking and dishes being moved could be heard from the other side of the vestibule. Everything was calm, easy, familiar.
‘A curious victim!’ she resumed. ‘A little beast of prey, rather. That’s what she is.’
She was watching me out of the corner of her eye. I had nothing to say in reply, and remained silent. My silence seemed to exasperate her.
‘I wonder why I should confide in you these secrets of my life. No matter! I’m not going to lie to you! It’s true I longed for a son. I had one. He only lived eighteen months. His sister already hated him … Yes, young as she was, she hated him. As for her father …’
She had to catch her breath before continuing. Her eyes were fixed, and her hands, which hung by her sides, moved as if to cling to something invisible. She seemed to be sliding down a slope.
‘The last day, they went out together. By the time they came back, the boy was dead. From that day on, they were inseparable. And how clever she was! I suppose that word seems strange to you? You imagine that a girl waits to come of age in order to be a woman, don’t you? Priests can be so naive. When a kitten plays with a ball of wool, I don’t know if it’s thinking about mice, but it does exactly what it has to. A man needs tenderness, they say, maybe so. But only one kind of tenderness, the kind that suits his nature, the kind for which he was born. What does sincerity matter? Don’t we mothers give boys a taste for lies, lies that, when they are still in their cradles, calm them down, reassure them, put them to sleep, lies as gentle and warm as a breast? In short, I soon realized that the girl, small as she was, was the mistress in my house, that I would have to resign myself to a sacrificial role, to being nothing but a spectator or a servant. I lived on the memory of my son, I saw him everywhere – his chair, his clothes, a broken toy, it was so awful! What can I say? A woman like me does not stoop to a rivalry that would be dishonourable. And besides, my wretchedness was without cure. The worst family misfortunes always have something ridiculous about them. In short, I lived. I lived between these two creatures, so ex
actly made for each other, even though perfectly dissimilar, whose solicitude towards me – always complicit – exasperated me. Yes, blame me if you will, it tore my heart in pieces, it poured a thousand poisons into it, I would have preferred their hatred. Anyway, I held on, and suffered my grief in silence. I was young then, I was attractive. When one is sure of pleasing men, when one is sure it is only up to oneself to love and be loved, virtue isn’t difficult, at least for women of my kind. Pride alone would be enough to keep us going. I fulfilled all my duties. Sometimes I was even happy. My husband isn’t an exceptional man, far from it. By what miracle did Chantal, whose judgements are very definite and often fierce, not realize that? … But she realized nothing. Until the day … Mark this, Father, all my life I’ve put up with countless acts of infidelity, acts so coarse and so childish that they didn’t hurt me at all. Between the two us, Chantal and me, I certainly wasn’t the more deceived!’
She fell silent again. I think I mechanically placed my hand on her arm. I had run out of surprise and pity.
‘I understand, madame,’ I said. ‘I hope you won’t one day regret having told a poor wretch like me things that only a priest should hear.’
She looked at me wild-eyed. ‘I’ll tell you the whole story,’ she said in a sibilant voice. ‘It’s what you wanted.’
‘I didn’t want it!’
‘Then you shouldn’t have come. And besides, you’re very good at extracting confidences, you’re a clever little priest. All right then, let’s have done with it! What did Chantal tell you? Try to answer honestly.’ She was stamping her foot, just like her daughter. She stood there with her arm folded on the mantelpiece, but her hand had tensed around an old fan that lay there amid other knick-knacks, and I could see the tortoiseshell handle gradually come apart beneath her fingers. ‘She can’t stand the governess, she’s never been able to stand anybody here!’
Diary of a Country Priest Page 14
